


Gotta get bad

by Drago



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Death, Prostitution, Suicide, drug overdose, it might be, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5187725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drago/pseuds/Drago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey is a prostitute. A whore. That's it, that's all he is.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>As if there is something shameful in replacing Mickey. Mickey is alright with that, he knows he is very replaceable.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's short, I wrote it in like half an hour, and maybe I will write something more, but for now it's done.

_$25 gives you a blow job, $60 a quickie, $100 a longer fuck, $200 a longer fuck with no protection. Kinky shit is negotiable._

Life is what it is, and Mickey doesn’t deliberate much on it. He has a roof above his head, enough food to eat, some to blow on the alcohol and drugs, and no one forces him to do things he doesn’t want to do. Well, maybe sometimes random johns, but they are few and far between. He is free to fuck tons of guys. Actually, the fact that he is more than willing to sleep with men is an advantage rather than something to be ashamed of.  
He isn’t happy, but he isn’t unhappy, and in his books it means that his life is good. He doesn’t dream of the things he can’t have. He learned that it’s easier this way years ago, when he was just a child.  
Can he still be considered a child? Is a seventeen year old working streets a child? He doesn’t feel seventeen, and he’s been repeatedly told by his flatmates that he has an attitude of a seventy year old grumpy dude. His flatmates are a bunch of dumb, strung out whores who would sell their lungs and livers if they were in a dire need of a hit (and if their lungs or livers were of any use to anyone.) They cannot be trusted with anything that requires at least a little bit of brain power.  
Mickey takes drugs, but not many. He isn’t addicted. If everything is fine he can go weeks without touching drugs (he doesn’t count pot, he gets the best stuff available, and it’s cleaner than he ever was, no harm in smoking it). He only does hard drugs when things are shitty. Like when he has a trick who hurts him, but pays good money that Mickey cannot refuse. Cocaine and heroin help, he just lies there, high as a kite, and doesn’t really feel the pain. But he never fucked anyone for drugs, he promised himself that it’s one thing he will never do. 

_Turning tricks isn’t that bad._

How come a life of a street prostitute seems to be good? There are multiple reasons and situations in which it may happen, in Mickey’s case it’s an old, boring story. The abusive father, neglectful, and then dead, mother – the regular Chicago Southside blues. He isn’t the first, won’t be the last. With his _FUCK U-UP_ knuckle tattoos and a rather short temper, with his father forcing him to sell drugs and beat up people since he was just a kid, with alcohol, drugs and guns surrounding him ever since he was a toddler it was obvious that what awaited him was a life of crime. Prostitution is illegal, but that’s not what his father had in mind for Mickey. He is Terry’s youngest son, but he is the brightest, and he knows that Terry thought he will take over the family legacy one day. And he would, if it weren’t for a one slip up.  
Terry hates the whole world but above everything else, Terry hates faggots. As it happens, Mickey is a big, fat faggot, and his father caught him getting plowed by a guy twice his size. Later events involved a gun, a beat up and a Russian prostitute who tried to fuck Mickey. For some reason he couldn’t get over the last part. He tried. He gritted his teeth and tried, but it was impossible to forget. Or to forgive (not that Terry cared about his forgiveness.)  
So one day, a year ago, Mickey packed his shit and moved out before Terry even woke up. He didn’t have much money or any friends, but he had his body, and if some Russian chick could do it, then he could definitely do it too.  
Getting a spot took a bit of fighting, but fighting was the first thing he learned in his life, and no skanky streetwalker stood a chance. After some time even pimps were afraid of him. Mickey knew that he could be a pimp as well, but it reminds him of Terry too much. He doesn’t want to ruin anyone’s life any more than he has to, to protect himself.  
He used to protect someone else. His brothers were older than him, big and far more thuggish than he could ever be, they fared just fine against their father. But Mandy, his sister, was always too soft and understanding when it came to Terry. She liked to say that she’s the toughest of them all, but Mickey caught her crying too many times to believe everything she said. He loved… He still loves her, as much as a Milkovich can love another person, but she shacked up with some dude even before their father had him raped, and they don’t really talk much.  
She calls from time to time, her life seems alright. She isn’t a whore or a junkie, and she wants to finish high school. Mickey can’t see himself doing that. They aren’t close anymore, and he wonders whether the person he loves even exists. Maybe she is just a memory, a ghost. He hopes she is. He hopes that she is softer now, that she doesn’t have to struggle so much. 

_Whores are family._

He is good at fucking, so good that he has regulars, makes decent money. The regulars are never enough to get a whore through the month. He doesn’t know anyone who has enough regulars to do only them and no random dudes. His flatmates definitely don’t.  
It’s kind of funny, because he always thinks of them as ‘flatmates’, not as living, breathing individuals. He knows their names, there is Suz, Billy, Pat and Kinga, but in his head (and when he is talking to other people) he always refers to them as ‘flatmates’. Mickey and the Flatmates, sounds like a band. But he can’t sing or play anything, and they’re just as useless. The only things they know are fucking and fighting (and plunging needles deep in their veins until everything fades into oblivion.)  
There is a weird sense of camaraderie between the hookers which comes in handy when one of their johns decides to play against the rules. When Suz’s client broke her nose Mickey found him and made sure that all of his fingers got the same treatment. When some of the other girls from their turf got raped by a john they spread the news and all swore to never do him again (Mickey heard that the guy also got stabbed.)  
It’s a fucked up, dysfunctional family, and it’s still better than whatever most of them had before. 

_Sometimes tricks are decent._

Usually his regulars are single guys, but there is one couple that comes to see him at least once a month. The age difference makes him gag, but it’s none of his business. The old guy seems to be about fifty, sixty. Maybe he used to be hot in the past, but now all Mickey sees are wrinkles and saggy skin. The young guy is one of the hottest guys Mickey’s ever fucked, tall and muscled with a nice smile and bright red hair. Lloyd and Ian, although he isn’t sure they gave him real names. Why wouldn’t they, though? He is just a whore who won’t run his mouth because he’s Southside. To them, he is Noel – nothing weird or unusual, believable.  
Figuring out whose idea is it to hire a prostitute is really difficult, both of them seem to be quite enthusiastic about it. Lloyd fucked him only once, usually he just wants to watch and finish on Mickey’s face after being sucked off. It’s Ian who does all of the fucking, bending Mickey in two and splitting him open with a huge cock. He likes it. He would like it better if it weren’t for a job, but he can live with what he gets.  
Lloyd is the one who is more kinky, brings whips, handcuffs, vibrators and other stuff. Ian prefers to just go as fast and hard as he can. And he likes to go bareback too. It’s not safe or wise, but Mickey doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t do it when there are signs of any STDs, but some of them show up after long time and some never mar the skin. It doesn’t matter.  
Mickey never gets high or drunk with them, he tried it once, and Lloyd didn’t seem to notice, but Ian hurt him – no lube and full speed had him sore for almost two weeks. Red didn’t have to say anything, Mickey knew what was that for. But why the redhead did that is yet another mystery (did he care? Did he feel remorse for fucking someone high?)  
Mickey almost likes being with Ian. When they’re fucking everything else fades away. There is no Lloyd, no money, no life outside of the hotel room. Ian’s kisses are deep and sweet, and he smiles when Mickey gasps or moans. The redhead frowns when there are cuts or bruises (or both) on his pale skin, when he is in pain from the previous client.  
Ian tips him when his grandpa isn’t looking (it’s probably Lloyd’s money anyway, but Mickey likes to think it comes from the younger man), and he bought Mickey a thick coat. He can’t wear it when he is working, it’s big and hides his best assets, but he wears it everywhere else. He doesn’t get sick as often as he did last year, when he only had a thin jacket and a coat which belonged to both Billy and him (and sometimes Kinga, fashion means shit in winter.)  
He allows his mind to wander a bit when he is with the couple. A short moment of respite before they are done and part the ways. Mickey goes back to his small, dirty flat while Lloyd and Ian ride away in their fancy car, warm and happy.


	2. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, part 2!

It’s cold. Freezing. And Mickey is even colder, shivering violently despite being in a hostel room. It seems that he has no control over his body, he feels nauseous and sleepy at the same time, it’s such an unusual combination for him. Usually he doesn’t feel much. Alan looks terrified, he is obviously saying something since his lips are moving, but Mickey hears nothing through the loud buzzing sound reverberating in his ears. He doesn’t think, he can’t think, everything is blurry around the edges. It should be scary, but he isn’t afraid. Death means nothing to him. Living is fine, but being dead must be convenient.   
He is surprised when he wakes up in a dimly-lit room. At first he stupidly thinks that it’s some kind of lame heaven, but then he recognizes the hospital white of the walls. It’s yet another surprise, whores die all the time because people prefer to turn their backs on them, run away. As if calling the ambulance would put them at risk. Mickey expected to die on a semi-clean bed in a dingy hostel with his client long gone, even though he has always thought that Alan is, despite his peculiar tastes, a decent enough guy.   
“You overdosed,” it’s Billy’s voice. He doesn’t need to be told what happened, what would always happen if you take heroin to be able to go through the stuff the client wants and then accept some grade-A coke from him, thinking that the heroin wore off already. It was dumb, but Mickey can’t stand the things Alan likes. The money is just too good to resist.  
“No shit,” he rasps out, throat dry. “How..?”   
“Lena saw you and told me.” Whores, a family.   
He had to be out of it for at least a couple days, and Billy looks tired but, for once, not high or craving it. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. Judging from the clothes Billy is wearing it must be Sunday. Billy is a good, little whore junkie who goes to the church every Sunday, thinking that he is going to be saved by an imaginary god. And Mickey always wants to laugh at him, he really does, but the priests in that one Church seem to genuinely care about them. He got to his knees in the sacristy once. Not to pray, never that. He would get a kick out of sucking priest’s dick, but the guy just shook his head. It hit Mickey harder then he would ever admit.  
“Everyone was shocked, and they all pitched in. You can pay the hospital and still owe them, or…”  
They make a run for it. Not literally since Mickey needs to be supported, but they leave the hospital without anyone noticing. He is a John Doe for them, he never has any ID on him when he works. The last thing he wants is to be recognized after death. He can only imagine how well his father, brothers or sister would react once told about the circumstances surrounding his death. Mickey Milkovich, a cheap whore.

He has enough money to rest for more than a week, but he would never let himself leave the streets for this long. The clients won’t wait if you’re not there, they will move on and find someone cheaper, prettier, nicer, better. But he takes it easy, avoiding the ones that could get rough, the ones that look like trouble. When he sees a flash of red in the car he instantly knows that Ian and his sugar daddy are there. And he is right, Ian approaches him almost immediately, cautiously looking him over. Mickey tries to look as casual as he can.   
“You weren’t there last week, I asked around.”  
“I wasn’t working.”  
“Were you sick?”  
“You got yourself another boy, right?” Mickey deflects with the question of his own, already knowing the answer. He enjoys the flush that spreads on Ian’s cheeks.  
“Yes,” the redhead says timidly, as if there is something shameful in replacing Mickey. Mickey is alright with that, he knows he is very replaceable.  
“I will go with you, but you can’t be rough,” he settles on saying, and he can see that Ian wants to ask. He doesn’t, probably knows it would be pointless. He just nods in agreement, already half hard in his trousers.  
Mickey feels faint when Ian fucks him vigorously, spaces out more than he would usually let himself, and he is sure the men notice, but neither of them scolds him for it. He gets pumped full of come and throws up right after leaving the hostel, missing the trash bin completely. It feels sticky and disgusting, and his eyes sting when he sees Lloyd’s car pull away from the curb, driving away.   
He’s had enough for the night, so he comes back to the cold flat and curls up under the comforter, hoping that the shivering will disappear. 

Mickey sees whores leave all the time. They leave in body bags, their thin, lifeless bodies carried out by the police officers. They leave with men twice their age and a promise of a bright future which unavoidably ends with them being a one-man whore, bruised and abused, sooner or later replaced with a newer model. They always come back. He’s heard stories, legends about whores starting completely new lives, getting out for real. But that’s just it, stories. It’s the one thing he hasn’t seen yet, the one he doesn’t expect to see.  
He can see Kinga fading away. Her skin turning gray, paper thin and rough, blond hair thinning out. She doesn’t talk much anymore, he remembers her being cheerful when they first met. Now she just stares at walls or lies on a floor, her breathing so shallow he has to pay extra attention just to see her chest move. He wants to blame it on drugs, but he knows it’s Kinga giving up, no longer fighting the fate they all share.   
They aren’t best friends, but Mickey talks with her more than their other flatmates do. They never use English. He speaks to her in Ukrainian, and she responds in Polish. It’s a broken communication, but they manage. He knows she came to the U.S. hoping for something better than Poland has to offer, and he can’t help but wonder whether things would be different if she’s stayed there. She must have a family there, but she doesn’t seem to remember about them.  
He isn’t surprised when he comes home to Suz hysterically sobbing next to Kinga’s lifeless body. A single thought enters his mind that Suz wouldn’t have to mourn the other girl if she tried to help before. But he knows all too well that they are all too wrapped up in their own lives and tragedies to care about the others. He calls the authorities and touches Kinga one last time. He presses his ear against her chest, just to make sure that there is no heartbeat. He spots an empty syringe, and he knows that this overdose has been done on purpose. Maybe his accident has been an inspiration. Maybe, maybe.  
The authorities come and go, Suz gets high, Mickey finds drugs and a wad of cash in Kinga’s room. He flushes the drugs even though he could sell them. Or take them. He keeps the money. They will spend it on rent, they won’t need to look for another flatmate just yet.  
He goes out and fucks a guy. Not for money, for himself. To prove that he still can. It proves nothing.   
It’s weird how he can almost physically feel Kinga’s absence. For some reason it makes going out to work difficult. He pushes through the aversion and sucks as many dicks as he can in one night, feeling thoroughly fucked out by the end of it. His mouth still tastes like cock when he calls Mandy. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he called her, and maybe that’s why she answers so fast.  
“Let’s meet,” she says. “I want you to see the place I live in. I want to see you.”  
Before, he wouldn’t agree. He would make excuses, call her a skank, banter until she forgot. But after, he just agrees to meet her the next day. He feels like a shadow of what he used to be, not so muscled, paler than ever, like a ghost. Will his sister recognize him? Will he recognize her? He tries to remember her face before he goes to sleep. He knows they used to look almost like twins, so he tries to imagine that. All he sees is his own face with smaller lips and longer hair. Ridiculous. 

Mandy’s new house is by no means big or beautiful, but it’s far better than whatever Terry managed for them before. Mickey’s flat doesn’t even compare. His sister looks good. There are no bruises on her body, she isn’t so thin anymore, and her smile seems genuine when she calls him an assface.   
“I live with my friend’s family now. Just a friend, he is gay.”  
Mickey doesn’t know why she tells him this. She should be wary of saying things like that around him. They grew up watching Terry fag bash people, they’ve been told over and over again that fags don’t have a place in this world. Some of the shock must register on his face because Mandy’s smile turns soft. “I know, Mick. Dad told Iggy, and Iggy told me. It’s alright. Oh, and call Iggy, he misses you.”  
It’s said so casually that Mickey almost misses the true meaning behind Mandy’s words. He never realized that he’s been carrying anything on his shoulders, but suddenly he feels much lighter.   
Mandy talks and talks, and talks about her new life, new friends, new job. He is not used to talking or listening so much, but he just sits there feeling calm. It’s not happiness, even though Mickey isn’t sure he would recognize it at this point, but he is calm in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Mandy’s hair is no longer black but blond, and her face looks so much brighter that he is entranced by it. He doesn’t remember her being so pretty.  
When she brings food it’s all real, proper food prepared with care. He can tell that Mandy’s friends aren’t rich, but it’s still amazing. It’s not him, he doesn’t belong here, but it’s amazing all the same. 

Ironically, it is the fiery red hair of Mandy’s friend that makes Mickey slip back into the darkness. The other boy’s smile dims and then drops completely when he sees Mickey.  
“This is my friend Ian. And that’s my asshole brother Mickey.”  
Mickey doesn’t shake hands, he dislikes touching other people. It should be funny considering his profession, but it’s not. Ian’s smile comes back, but it’s strained and doesn’t reach his eyes. Mickey wonders how much the redhead regrets everything that happened between them. How disgusted he must be to have a whore he fucked in his own house.   
Ian is a good actor, after the initial slip up he manages to be friendly enough for Mickey to stay. When he finally decides to leave the redhead offers to walk him to the station which they both know is an excuse to talk, probably.   
It’s already dark outside, and it means that Mickey won’t be going back to his flat. He wants to, but he won’t. Sometimes he needs to push himself harder.  
“This is, uh,” Ian starts, but Mickey drags him into the nearest alley and starts undoing his trousers. “What are you doing?”  
“Don’t tell Mandy,” Mickey begs, unable to raise his eyes.  
“No, God, no, No… Mickey, I won’t tell her. You don’t have to do this.”  
He hears what Ian is saying, but the other man has to crush his wrists in a strong grip before he registers the real meaning behind the words. He scoffs, it’s never this easy. Johns like to play games, play with them like predators do with their prey, create the illusion of safety before they pounce. You can’t trust people like them.   
“Stop, Mickey, stop,” Ian whispers calmingly. “It’s okay.”  
When he finally looks up the regret and shame are written all over Ian’s face. He doesn’t understand.

He understands a week later when Lloyd picks him up in his shiny car, and Ian fucks his mouth until his lip splits, smearing blood all over the thick length.


End file.
